Dream on
by Nuky
Summary: One-shot/song-fic. Sands finaly get's rid of his last tormentor. Dream on.


**I have this incredible thing. ****Every time I start doing homework some amazing idea comes up in my head. Call it luck, call it lack. Call it whatever you wanted but I wrote another one shot about my personal Jesus. **

**I don't own him however, I do worship. **

.-.-.

**-****Dream on-**

Somewhere in the most disgusting pit on the planet, as he like to call it, he roared victory. The sun was long gone, not that he could see. But feeling was almost as good. Who needs vision as you can linger your way around. And it did good with the ladies though. Accidentally bumping into one of the best smelling ladies in the house. Smell, another thing he grew strongly attached with. He didn't know what it was with the other sex, but you could smell it if they wanted to do more then just the basic smooth talk.

Perfume, natures way of expressing lust.

But don't dig it went it's to sweet, it will be a reflection the girl who bought it. And no, he didn't like the sweet cheeks. That's where he went wrong last time.

But everything was going to be peacy pie right now, because she was _dead_. He killed her, hating the fact he hadn't made it more painful and longer. O well, you can't have it all now can you?

Her daddy-O was gone as well. Not entirely by his hands, but it was good enough.

The three señores who hold him during the doctors appointment? Dead as well, he did that too. He'd been the big bad wolf, because they kept running away. Until he huffed and puffed and blew there place apart. With a little help of TNT and a good friend that knew his way with explosions. To bad he hadn't been able to see it. His friend told him it was a big blast, little bit like firework, one gigantic ball of fire.

And the little piggy's where gone.

So little miss sweet cheeks, mummy boy, the little piggy's almost everyone who contributed at his visual operation was dead.

Except doctor Hyde himself.

"That ain't taking much longer right?" He sniggered and dug the barrel of his gun deeper in the throat of the good old doc. The man kept silent, but he knew he was terrified. The smell of fear, the smell of success, the smell of piss, gosh the poor bastard had wet himself.

"I've seen to much doc, you did to much." He continued his conversation. "You tortured people, if I may believe the stories you even tortured your own daughter. And they say I'm a bad boy." In one motion he hammered the butt of his gun into the face of the other man. To his delight the man cried out after a soft crack. Amazing he could still aim for the nose without having to touch the beast.

"Call it vengeance, call it doing the right thing, but tonight I'm ganna blow your soul out doc. But not before I had a little fun. You have no idea how hard it is to laugh these days. The whole lack of eyeballs kinda fucks up all the humour." His face turned cold and rock solid.

"Get up!" He jerked the man up with the barrel of his gun. No way he was touching that thing. A murky smile quirked up his tight face. 'I got others to do that.'

"Let's go doc, I don't got all day." He started to push the man forward. Some people might think it's a bit strange to let Frankenstein be your K9. That's where everybody goes wrong.

He didn't _need_ a K9, after being blinded for about a year he started to grew new habits.

Which included a lot of counting and walking into open car doors, slamming your face into a wall and killing someone for laughing. But he could dig it, as always. He just made some change in plans and change in heart. No longer killing for fun, not only for balance. Now it started to be something worthy. Taking lives was easy, getting the right bastard at the right time, that was _nice_.

So no more killing the cook for making something breathtaking. Because that could ruin his plan. Since the CIA cut him off he had to be careful who he killed. Now that he actually could go to jail for it.

'Twenty-one, twenty-two.' "Gosh doc we made it, aren't you proud of your creation? It still walks, it still talks. It's still kickin' and swinin'. Still fucking _alive_, hadn't thought about that when you pushed me into the street huh? Probably thought I would walk into a bus. Sweet how people mistake you when you grew one little handicap."

He felt the doc winch back before getting grabbed and dragged into one of the filthiest alleys of Mexico City.

"Just one last thing, your sure he matches with the photo?" He asked to one of his monkeys.

"Si." Was the husky low answerer.

He smiled rewarding. He'd been thinking wrong for a long time. Monkeys beat rats, cost a bit more but he could deal with that.

"Then do your thing good man." He said and leaned against the wall. While he lit up his _Black Devil_ he listened to the easing screams and cries from the good old doc.

He started to whistle and blew out some smoke. '_Isn't that the way, everybody's got their dues in life to pay'_ He couldn't help himself but smile, smile and smile. _'I know it's everybody's sin, you got to lose to know how to win_'

'So fucking true.' He thought enjoying the silence occasionally alternated by hollow sobs for air. He never knew right from wrong. Alright, there he caught himself on a lie. Fuck, yeah he knew it wasn't the nicest thing steal, betray and backstab your way through life. But he simply didn't care if he did right or wrong. As long as he thought the balance was alright.

'Call it fucking Karma, but tonight I'm doing the world a big favour.' _'All the things you do come back to you' _

Now his chuckle grew into a laugh. 'Irony doc, you drilled some sense into me. Not even my therapist could do that. No wonder, I shot him too.'

He heard his monkeys come back from the place of the crime. "Where done señor."

He cocked his head to his three wise monkeys. "See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil right?"

"As long as you pay us correct." The Mexican said.

"Sure, what kind of man do you take me for?" He handed him a _Jimmy Neutron _lunchbox and smirked. "Count it if you like." O how much he would pay to see the man's face right now.

"We will, if it's not enough we will come back for you."

"Joy I'll make an appointment, but first let me enjoy my vengeance, kay?"

The man growled and rattled with the lunchbox. Then they left him alone. All alone with his last thorn. The last person that got arching and crawling under his skin every time he thought about him. You could almost say he was in love, that strong feeling to find him. His face that kept turning up in his head, in his dreams.

'Love and hate, so easily mistaken.' He had to bite his lip to stop sniggering. Sure, he wanted the good old doc to know how much he was enjoying this, but he had to look emotionless.

That was his thing. Señor heartless. Another easy mistake. Sure he had feelings and emotions. Just not the regular mix. He didn't feel grief if he heard about a missing girl on the news. Why should he? Blame the parents, they should keep there offspring together and not letting it run around in a crowdie cafeteria. And before you mistake him for a baby killer, he never murdered a child. He had his standards. But sure, he'd smacked some with his stick if the parents weren't paying attention.

Another thing that became very handy. The moment you walk around with a stick and sunglasses everyone things you're the sweetest thing. It was so funny to make a waitress spill an entire meal on the floor. With one quick 'I'm sorry' you where off the hook.

But let his feelings and emotions be, he had better things to do then to wonder where it ever went wrong.

Casually he walked into the alley. The smell hit him hard in the face. Blood, piss, trash. Not a great place to let out your last breath.

He followed the sound of harsh and deep moans and kneeled in front of the broken man.

He took of his glasses and grinned. "Sucks doesn't it?" He didn't receive an answer. That was alright, as long as he had the man's attention.

He started to whistle the same tune while he twisted his silencer around the barrel of his gun.

"Get on your knees." He stood up and kicked the man violently in the ribs. The good old doc cried out and sunk forward on his knees.

"See my boots? My calf-leathery boots? I can't but you'll see you hit bottom." He blew out the last bit of smoke and showed the tortured man the butt of his cigarette. "Guess your familiar with this huh? I heard you could tortured with this for hours. I wonder if you did it on your precious little girl. Call me naïve but even I wouldn't torture my own flesh. Sure I would spank them once or twice and yell at there mother to shut them up. But torture my kiddies? No, not even this sociopath would go that low."

"-Why don't you just do it!" The doc grunted miserable.

He buried the heel of his boot into the right hand of the doc. The poor bastard cried out and tried to wiggle his hand free.

"I believe _I _was talking." He stepped off the man's hand and threw his cigarette away. He took his time finding the bullets and loaded his gun. He smiled and started to whistle again.

"Sing with me Doc." He purred and leaned forward, hoping the man would get sick from the view of his hollow sockets. "Sing with me doc and I'll let you go. C'mon sing with me. Or am I not worthy enough? Sing for the year. It's been a _god damn _year doc! Sing with me, sing for the laughter, sing for the tear. Sing it with me, it's just for today. Maybe tomorrow the good Lord will take you away!"

He pulled the trigger and the doc cried out, maybe fear maybe salvation. He started to laugh coldly, he'd hit an empty chamber.

"I don't hear you _singing_ Doc, don't tell me you don't know _Aerosmith_? One of the last bits of good music. C'mon sing fuckmook!"

He started summing up the next couplet. To his delight the good old doc joined in. Hissing and searching for the words, spitting out blood and gasping for air. But he made the poor bastard sing. Fuck, he would even be able to make him dance if he wanted to. But he preferred singing, this way he could hear how much pain he was costing him.

"Dream on." He finished the song and stood up, putting his sun glasses back in place. "You have a lovely singing voice." He took another few passes back. "You can go now." He could feel the wonder in the man's eyes. "Do you want to live or not?!" This caught the mans attention and he crawled up.

O it must hurt him so much to stand up with broken ribs and a dislocated shoulder. His monkeys did always what he asked. And this time he asked them to let him be able to walk.

Let him walk, like he'd been able to walk.

"Hey Guevara do you know what it is with rock?" He reached out his arm. "It's dead." He pulled the trigger. This time his gun fired and his bullet sunk deep into the neck of his last tormentor.

"Dream on sucker, did you really thought I would let you live?" He polished his gun and untwisted the silencer. He was a backstabber. And he like the idea of Guevara taking his last breath believing he was going to live to see the next sunset.

He liked to build up a bit hope and then crush it bleeding and broken. Like Barillo had done.

Sure, we won't kill you. We just take the most important sense you have to let you figure out how fast you will die on the streets.

'Guess your creation truly surprised you Doc.' He thought when he stepped over the limb body. He pushed his gun back in his holster and walked out of the vulgar alley. Shy sunbeams caught him in surprise. 'It's tomorrow.' He smiled and started to hum along with the cracked up voice of the good old doc, repeating over and over in his head.

That voice was never going to leave him ever again. Perfect payback, no more nightmares of that bastards face. Now he had his own melody, sang on his own funeral.

He was a blind sociopath, a backstabber. And he had _class_.

.-.-.

_Yeah, sing it with me, sing for the year  
sing for the laughter, sing for the tear  
sing it with me, if it's just for today  
Maybe tomorrow, the good Lord will take you away_


End file.
